


Lost and Found Or To Fear the Thorn

by sethra2000



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sethra2000/pseuds/sethra2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“But he that dare not grasp the thorn<br/>Should never crave the rose”.<br/>------Anne Bronte</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “But he that dare not grasp the thorn  
> Should never crave the rose”.  
> \------Anne Bronte

Methos lay in his cold, lonely bed thinking that payback was a bitch. He glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. Shit, three o’clock in the fucking morning, he shouldn’t even be conscious at this hour. But sleep had been something very difficult to capture lately. It was now three months since MacLeod had walked out of his life, and he was beginning to think he was becoming far to intimate with the knowledge of how an addict must feel when denied his drug of choice. Not only had the annoyingly upright, moral and judgmental Highland brat walked out of his life, but MacLeod had walked out of everyone else’s life as well

After the painful incident with O’Rourke, Duncan had said good-bye to them all. It had been very formal and Methos had felt the chill of a bad premonition slither down his spine when he had reluctantly left MacLeod’s barge that night, only to have the Highlander turn up at his apartment the following night.

 

******************  
Methos’ Apartment.  
3 months earlier.  
******************

Methos straightened from his usual sprawl in front of the TV when the familiar buzz washed over his senses. The stresses of the last few days had exhausted his last reserves and he had almost nodded off watching the late news. He relaxed when he identified the presence as that of Duncan MacLeod, a guilty sliver of relief slithering down his spine with the recognition. He’d had a bad feeling about the Highlander’s mood yesterday, when he had fair-welled Amanda and Joe, who were flying out of Paris tomorrow morning, it had almost been as if Mac were the one leaving. But if the Highland child was here now it must mean that things were okay. So why was that feeling of dread and imminent disaster back nagging at the back of his mind?

His grim thoughts were interrupted by a firm knock on the door, and pushing his misgivings aside with an effort Methos hauled himself off the couch and went to open it.

 

Mac smiled inwardly at the sight of the Old Man, he had that rumpled just-woken-up look about him that Mac always found so endearing. It made his fingers itch to smooth the spiked hair and caress the pale face, ubiquitous glare and all. It made what he was here for all the more painful, but it was something he had to do.  
“Mac, do you know what time it is?” Methos asked, going for grumpy even though he was pleased to see the big Scot. The fact that Mac didn’t take him seriously and just grinned at him while pushing past the door annoyed him just a little. “Mac!” He growled, pushing the door closed to follow his uninvited guest across the living room, his curiosity peaking when Mac didn’t stop at the couch but carried on into the bedroom. What was the man up to now?

Mac stopped in front of the bed debating with himself, was he right in doing things this way? The warm, inviting tingle of Methos old and seductive quickening just made the battle for a decision that much harder. He wanted time out, needed it desperately, to get himself back together again. He was also not sure he would come back, maybe Methos was right? Maybe Duncan MacLeod of The Clan MacLeod was too big a target? Maybe disappearing was the best thing he could do for those he loved, and himself? Maybe Tessa and Ritchie, even Charlie, would still be alive today, if he had not been there, despite the almost dream he had had about Fitz. It was all too much to assimilate, and just maybe a small nasty part of himself, that he was too ashamed of to acknowledge, wanted to pay Methos back for all the times he had disappeared and left him alone to worry and crave the older Immortal’s presence. Maybe he just wanted to see if his ancient lover would come after him? He wasn’t sure what his motives were, he just knew he had to get away.

Methos stopped, gazing at the man standing at the foot of his bed. Mac looked lost in thought, almost as if he were debating with himself. Moments passed and he approached the silent Scot. Reaching out a tentative hand he was almost reluctant to disturb MacLeod, a niggling feeling that he might not like the outcome of this internal debate. Laying a gentle hand on the broad shoulder he turned the other man to face him, shocked at the warring emotions that he saw in the large brown eyes before they were quickly shuttered against him and he found his mouth claimed in a savage kiss.

Two broad arms circled his waist and pulled him close possessing him, Mac’s arousal pressing against his groin, his dominating presence swamping him. Searching hands slid up under his sweatshirt and he inhaled sharply, the feel of Mac’s hands on his skin sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. The hot mouth continued to devour his, before slowly progressing along his jaw and down his neck. His breathing ragged, he desperately tried to step away from MacLeod’s overwhelming aura but the big Scot just crowded him closer to the bed, fingers tightening their grip on his arms. “Mac!” Methos gasped, twisting himself from the bigger man’s grasp. “What the Hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, his voice sharp.

Mac stood in a daze for a second his gaze focused on the moist, swollen lips of his sometime lover. His senses were aching at the loss of physical contact with the lean, strong body. God’s he needed this, this last night with Methos, storing up the memories for the loneliness to come. “I need you,” Mac pleaded.

Methos could not remain unmoved in the face of his lover’s obvious need, but the hidden reasons behind it had him worried. This was so unlike the MacLeod he had come to know, and love, he finished with a mocking inward smile. The man was so indecisive and distracted, his Quickening so volatile, and he feared that the last incident with O’Rourke might have tipped the usually self-assured and confident Scot over the edge. Stepping back up to the beckoning heat Methos reached up a hand and brushed light fingers over the handsome face, along the strong jaw before sliding his fingers to the nape of Mac’s neck to pull him back into a gentler kiss. “You have me,” Methos replied, pulling back and catching a brief flicker of anger in the depths of the brown gaze that made him shiver.

“Do I?” was the low, almost vicious growl as Mac crowded him further, stripping him of his sweatshirt before shoving him backwards onto the bed. Methos lay stunned, wondering at the meaning of the words, as the Highlander stripped quickly. His half-hearted protests were cut off by 200-pounds of aroused Scot landing on him, eager hands fumbling to open his jeans as the hungry mouth again latched onto his, sucking the breath from his body. This was a side he rarely saw of the usually restrained and considerate Scot and yet some dark part of him felt it was a side he could quickly grow to like. A red hot spike of desire drove into his groin when he saw the angry need smoldering in the depths of Mac’s eyes, the ungentle hands finally defeating the fastenings on his jeans as hot fingers closed around his aching shaft.

Mac heard his lover cry out as he gripped Methos’ hardened flesh, those three small words suddenly a cruel tease, and a wicked smile curled his lips as he began to stroke the twitching shaft. He nipped the vulnerable neck, sharp teeth almost but not quite drawing blood, as he vowed he would not be the only one to remember this night for a long time to come.

Methos moaned, as the hot mouth and savage teeth tracked down his throat to the juncture of neck and shoulder before scolding their way down his chest to his already aroused nipples, whilst Mac’s talented hand dragged him to the edge of release but not over. Mac paused at one of the already hardened nubs and after briefly teasing his right nipple his lover moved downwards. He groaned at the sudden loss of the glorious friction on his cock when Mac sat up and snarled at him. 

“Turn over.” 

The command came in that same low growl that again sent slivers of pleasure along Methos’ nerves. He obviously was not obeying quickly enough, because he found himself roughly turned and dragged up onto his knees. One of Mac’s hands held his hip in a bruising grip whilst the other snaked around to again embrace his shaft, gathering the fluid that was leaking from it to use as lubrication. He was roughly entered by two wet fingers, the pleasure/pain sensations forcing a strangled moan from deep within, followed by a grunt as the fingers were replaced by Mac’s hard urgent cock.

Mac groaned the sensations of sinking himself into the fiery heat of his lover’s body threatening to snap the thin veneer of control that was left to him. Deep inside the urge to punish this man for all the pain he had caused him warred with the need to protect and cherish him at the same time. The broken, incoherent sounds issuing from Methos as he thrust savagely into the slender form only serving to make the battle more fierce.

Methos’ world narrowed to that single point of connection with his savage lover and the harsh sound of flesh slapping against flesh. His own voice and that of his lover’s lost in the swirl of emotion and sensation. Then he cried out as a large, rough hand gripped him hard to match the speed of the forceful thrusts that rocked his body. It tore release from him before he was ready, the sharp pain of teeth on his shoulder the last thing he felt before blacking out.

The taste of blood in his mouth and the spasms of his lover’s body round him were enough to hurl Mac over the edge as well, the wave of a shattering orgasm washed over him, draining him of his strength and his anger at the same time. He managed to collapse sideways dragging a semi conscious Methos with him. Oh Gods, what have I done, Mac cried silently to himself.

 

Methos fought his way up from oblivion as he struggled to understand the soft murmur in his ear, he opened his eyes finding only darkness. Slowly he became aware of a warm, familiar presence at his back and the comforting feeling of being held by two strong arms while a hand stroked the smooth flesh of his chest and stomach, gentle strokes designed to soothe, not arouse. The soft voice that whispered in his ear sent tiny slivers of pleasure through his nerves as it was accompanied by warm wet breath, and it took him several minutes to comprehend that the words being spoken were in Gaelic.

“Methos, I’m sorry, so very sorry. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I never meant for things to be this way, but you make me so angry sometimes that I want to kill you and love you forever at the same time....”

“Mac?” Methos murmured quietly, his brain still not functioning on all levels.

An in-drawn breath followed by a deafening silence told him that he had not been meant to hear those words. “Mac, what-”

“Nothing lover, go back to sleep,” Mac whispered back.

“Mac-”

“Shhhhh, it’s ok. It’s nothing,” Mac interrupted placing gentle fingers over Methos’ lips. “Go back to sleep.”

Methos sighed, reluctantly willing to be put off. “This isn’t over MacLeod. Not by a long shot,” he finished and was greeted by a tightening of the embrace that held him. He thought he caught the murmur of words that sounded like ‘Isn’t it’ before the gentle hands soothing him forced his traitorous body to succumb to it’s need for sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

*****************  
Methos’ Apartment  
present day  
*****************

Methos' body still tingled with remembered sensations when he thought about that night, but then anger followed soon after when he remembered the next morning. Methos groaned with remembered pain, battling to stem the tide of tears that threatened to burn their way down his face.

He had woken, that morning, with a feeling of complete satisfaction, still bone tired from his exertions of the previous night. The bed had been a mess, the distinctive sent of sex and Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod still lingering in his nostrils. The foggy sleep induced haze had been slow in clearing, as had the lazy languor in his body, but eventually he had noticed that the now familiar welcoming buzz, that comforted him and gave away the presence of his lover, was absent. A momentary but deep panic had swept through him leaving a nauseating sensation in his gut, then common sense had re-asserted itself and logical explanations had begun to march through his mind, albeit with a slight hint of desperation. Mac had gone for his usual morning run, he’d gone to the market for supplies knowing how empty Methos usually kept his fridge. Even the desperate hope that the annoying brat was just avoiding the talk that the former night’s events seemed to warrant.

But the minutes had turned into hours and Methos had been forced to admit that MacLeod wasn’t coming back. Then he had panicked again as the only other logical explanation, that he would allow himself to entertain, was that the Scot had been challenged and had lost. But that idea had been eventually discarded along with the others. He would have known if MacLeod had died, he was sure of that and Joe would have at least called, if not come to his apartment, if that had been the case. He had tried all of MacLeod’s usual numbers, the barge, the mobile, but they had all been disconnected. So eventually Methos had been forced into the unwelcome conclusion that MacLeod had left him.

Pain and anger had battled for supremacy then and anger had won out, both at MacLeod and himself. With unwanted hindsight he could now see that saying good-bye had been what that last night had been all about and he laughed bitterly. What was that saying, hindsight was 20/20 vision? 5000 years old and he couldn’t even tell when someone was leaving him. Resignation had been slower in coming, but inevitable, as he had ruefully thought about all the times he had walked out on Mac. How he had just disappeared without a trace. Hell, their first meeting had ended that way. Could he in truth throw stones in his own glass house? But still it had hurt, more deeply than he could have ever imagined. It had been the very last thing he had expected from the loyally passionate Scot.

So, here he was three months later, suffering from an emotional craving that was so strong it bordered on the physical. The absent Scot’s presence pained him almost like a phantom limb, a vague Immortal buzz skittering along his already stressed nerves. He speculated that it had happened during the double quickening, when he and MacLeod had taken the heads of Kronos and Silas together. He had been slammed with Silas’ Quickening, the pain of taking his brother’s head merciless. Then he had been brutally invaded by Kronos’ Quickening as his former brother and lover had tried one last time to strike him down from beyond the grave. Duncan had battled with the insane Immortal’s Quickening and had pulled Kronos back, but not before something unheard of had happened. His and Duncan’s Quickenings had become entwined and they had shared feelings, memories. The after effects of the experience had not been entirely apparent, until now, when he had been denied MacLeod’s presence and touch. He had not equated his always returning to the Highlander with this burning need to be with Duncan, because when he came to think about it, the need had never been allowed to get this intense. In the past he had felt a vague sense of desire to see MacLeod and he had never ignored it, or questioned it, he had simply rung Joe to check where Mac was. Then he’d showed up, confident in the knowledge that he would be welcome, if not always enthusiastically so.

It startled him to realize that even though he denied it vehemently, even to himself, he had always enjoyed the fact that Mac thought of him as one of the Clan.

Methos tossed restlessly, glaring once more at the glowing face of the clock on the bedside table. Fuck he hated insomnia, the way the minutes seemed to crawl like hours, stretching the night out to an intolerable length making it seem endless. Cursing in Greek he flung the covers back and hauled himself out of bed. He made his way to the kitchen through the familiar darkness, flipping on the small light over the sink, wincing as even that small illumination stabbed at his night adapted sight. Adding a few more choice oaths into the night air he reached for the fridge and liberated a beer, deciding that somewhere it was the right time of day for one. Flicking the bottle top behind the fridge, he froze as the habitual action caught him off guard. It was something he only ever did at Duncan’s, because he knew it annoyed the hell out of the fastidious Scot. He cursed himself for a fool again, it was downright insane how much the honorable Scottish barbarian had gotten under his skin, totally destroying all his hard earned commonsense. He stopped short of asking himself why he was still in Paris, because he already knew the answer. Because he was waiting for Joe to ring and tell him that MacLeod was back. A short bark of self-deprecating laughter disturbed the silent darkness, Beelzebub would ice skate in hell before that happened, he chastised himself, sprawling on the couch and staring morosely out the window into the cold dreary Paris night. Because he knew for sure that Joe wouldn’t tell him, even if the old Watcher did know where MacLeod was, and Methos was now sure that Joe had in fact been telling the truth when the Watcher had stated he didn’t know Mac’s whereabouts.

Methos had badgered Joe at first, gambling that Mac would not have left without telling his friend and Watcher where he had gone. But the Watcher had remained firm, adamant, that not even he knew where the missing Scot was. Unwilling to call Joe a liar to his face Methos had eventually stopped seeing the old mortal altogether, putting another nail into his coffin of loneliness.

 

Shaking himself to dispel the gloom of his thoughts, Methos placed the now empty beer bottle down on the coffee table with a decisive click, the time for some positive action had arrived, he was sick and tired of brooding about his annoying lover. Standing he made his way to the shower, deciding he was going to damn well get some information out of Joe if he had to go over there right this instant and tie him to his bloody computer to do it!

Standing under the cool water, Methos let the strong stream pound the last vestiges of gloom and inaction out of his system. He could not believe he had fallen into a brood about MacLeod. Christ, he’d definitely been hanging around the moody Scot far to long, it must be catching. The irony of that statement made him laugh, because here he was about to set out and find the irritating brat again so he could hang out with him some more. “You’re a sick, twisted bastard. You do know that, don’t you Old Man?” He said to himself, laughing again as the silent acknowledgment of his earlier decision welled up inside, filling the cracks that had started to appear in his soul.

Dressing quickly Methos grabbed his keys, checking automatically for the familiar weight of his Ivanhoe inside his coat before leaving his apartment with a new sense of purpose.

******

Pulling up outside Joe’s place, Methos suppressed a twinge of guilt at waking his friend at such an early hour, but with the decision made he could not wait until a decent hour to get the information.

“All right! All right! Keep ya shirt on!” Joe yelled as he roused himself awkwardly out of his bed after being rudely woken by someone banging on the door fit to break it off its hinges. Cursing under his breath at the mangy son-of-a-bitch who would wake a man from a sound sleep at this time of the morning, Joe limped over to the door and flicking the lock and chain yanked it open. “What the hell time in the morn’-” he stopped mid word. The last person on earth he expected to see, apart from the devil himself, stood on his doorstep with an innocent smile curving his lips, just as if it hadn’t been two months since they had last seen, let alone spoken to each other. “What the hell are you doing here! Do you know what time it is?” Joe growled, suppressing with an effort the sudden overwhelming urge to knock the smile off the arrogant old Immortal’s face.

“Umm, I need to ask you something, and yes.” 

The reply was infuriatingly smug, and Joe just knew that slamming the door in Methos’ face wasn’t going to work, although it might make him feel better. Leaving the door open and his uninvited guest outside Joe walked away into the living room, stopping at the liquor cabinet. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath, for he had a feeling he was going to need a large drink in order to deal with this and damn the hour.

Methos just grinned, closing the door behind him to follow the sleep disheveled Watcher into the living room. “I’d love a beer, thanks Joe,” he said pleasantly, as if it wasn’t 5:30 AM.

Turning, Joe took several steps before he stopped and glared at the still smiling Immortal. “You know where it is,” he grouched, turning back and going over to his easy chair. Damned if he was going to serve some 5000 year old pain in the arse who’d woken him up at this ungodly hour to ask him where Mac was, because he just knew that was exactly why said ancient pain in the arse was here.

Settling down in his chair, Joe heard the hiss of a bottle being opened followed by the rattle of a bottle top disappearing behind his refrigerator. Bloody hell, he could well understand Mac wanting to get away from the infuriating man, how did the fastidious Highlander put up with him, you’d need the patience of a saint, and Joe knew he was no saint. He waited until the other man had returned from the kitchen. “I don’t know where he is.” He stated flatly, waiting for the reaction.

“Where who is?” Methos asked after taking a swig from the bottle and sighing contentedly before settling into his habitual sprawl on the couch.

“Cut the crap Adam, I know exactly why you’re here, and my answer is the same as it was last time you asked. I. Don’t. Know.” He finished, jabbing his whisky filled glass at his unwelcome guest for emphasis.

Methos took another swig from the bottle. “But you could find out,” he wheedled, putting on his best Adam Pierson, mild mannered grad student and long time friend face. He saw Joe’s expression darken and knew that had been a mistake. “And you wouldn’t tell me even if you did know, is that it?” He finished, his voice and face now serious.

“That would depend on why you wanted to know, wouldn’t it?” Joe shot back, watching the others eyes for a reaction. He had found that the old Immortal was very good at not showing his feelings on his face, but if you said the right thing and looked hard enough you could tell things from his eyes.

Methos flinched inwardly at the implications of Joe’s words, for what reason other than concern would he want to know Mac’s whereabouts? Joe couldn’t think.... No!

Noting the slight look of horror that entered the changeable green eyes as the Old Man found the meaning behind his words, Joe let a small triumphant smile grace his lips. Getting one up on Methos was a once in a lifetime experience and he was glad he had had the opportunity to do it.

“And you call me a manipulative bastard.” Methos growled, disgust coloring his voice. Silently he chastised himself, he must stop underestimating this man.

“That’s because I know my parents were married, and I believe the phrase was calculating son-of-a-bitch, but thank you for the compliment.” Joe returned, raising his almost empty glass to the other man in salute. He laughed as Methos just scowled at him, slumping further into the couch, something he would have said was impossible. But Joe had learned in the past that nothing was impossible when it came to Methos. So, the old guy really was worried about Mac. Well that made two of them. Maybe he should help Methos find the missing Highlander, he knew Mac would be furious but he was getting sick of the not knowing and the worrying himself. And when they found him he just might get Methos to shoot the miserable bastard for him, just to let Mac know how upset he was. But that didn’t mean he was going to make it easy for the ancient Immortal. “So, give me one good reason why I should help you find Mac?” He asked.

Methos glared at Joe, but found that the other man seemed to have developed a certain immunity to intimidation. He supposed that dealing with MacLeod on a regular basis would do that to a person. Not that Mac actually intimidated people, well, not consciously anyway, one just found it extremely difficult not to give the damned Highland brat his own way. “What do you want me to say Joe? That I’m worried about him? That I need to know where he is? That I love the miserable bastard and I want to throw the little brat down on the floor and fuck his brains out?!” Methos retorted, his voice rising with anger and frustration, although in all honesty he could hardly blame Joe for his attitude. “Shit, I don’t need this,” he muttered, placing the bottle down on the coffee table and standing. “I’ll see you around” he finished, settling his coat more comfortably on his lean frame and turning to leave.

A little stunned by the usually controlled Immortal’s outburst, it was several seconds before Joe realized that Methos was about to leave. “Methos, wait!” Joe called. He breathed a sigh of relief when the other man stopped, he was sure that Methos would just ignore him.

“What?” Came the tired and weary reply.

Joe eyed the tense back still turned towards him, the strength of the emotions behind the outburst had been genuine, and Joe had to quickly re-evaluate his thinking. He had definitely missed something of vital importance in the Highlander’s life if he and the Old Man had become lovers, which was the obvious conclusion behind the words that Methos had spoken. “Look, I’m sorry. Ok? It’s just.... I never know where I stand with you. Trying to figure you out is worse than reading a book in the dark with no light on.” A short bark of laughter was the only response and Joe sighed. “Look Goddamit, will you just park your skinny arse back on the couch and we’ll work something out!” He growled, starting to lever himself out of the chair for another much needed trip to the whisky bottle. A gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him, as a long delicate hand took his glass and poured his refill for him. “Thanks,” he murmured when the glass was set in front of him.

Methos returned to his place on the couch. “Alright, my skinny arse is parked, so what are we going to do?” He asked.

Joe glared at the sprawled man, taking in the faint smile, above which lurked a pair of serious green eyes. Goddamit, it was too early in the morning to be dealing with a cantankerous, underhanded, manipulating, 5000-year-old son-of-a-bitch. “Look, I’ve been trying to find the mad bastard myself, but I think he’s taken a leaf out of your book because he’s done a bloody brilliant job of losing himself.” He pinned the seemingly young and innocent Immortal with an exasperated glare. “You know, I always knew you’d be a bad influence on him. If you were going to teach him something why did it have to be ‘How to disappear, lesson 101’.” Joe grouched.

“Hey, don’t look at me Joe, you don’t think I’d be giving away trade secrets do you?” Methos replied with a shrug.

Joe grunted. “Yeah, well, he’s not in any of his usual haunts. I’ve even checked out that Monastery in Tibet he went to after the whole Arhiman fiasco.” He didn’t mention Ritchie, that was still far to painful to go into. “Hell, at least I knew where he was then. I’ve had Watchers peering in keyholes from Albania to Zululand, but he may as well be on the moon. I even checked flights out of the country, but there wasn’t any Duncan MacLeod on any of the passenger lists.”

Methos could not stifle a laugh at Joe’s outraged tone, it was as if he took it as a personal insult that the suddenly devious Scot had lost himself where Joe couldn’t find him.

“Just shut up, it’s all your fault anyway. Christ, he had to pick now to start listening to you,” Joe groused, squashing the urge to smack the insufferable smile off the other’s face.

“Welcome to the real world, Joe. You’ve had it too easy with our honorable Boy Scout for too long.” Methos quipped.

“Very funny, but that ain’t gonna help us find the man is it? You must have some contacts?”

“You think I haven’t tried them already?” Methos returned hotly.

“Ok, ok, keep your shirt on,” Joe placated. “Well, I guess we could try Amanda. The little thief is bound to have some contacts that decent people shouldn’t know about. Not that I’m saying you’re decent mind you,” he cut back.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Methos replied with supreme nonchalance refusing to rise to the bait.

“You would,” Joe muttered, taking a sip from the warming liquid in his glass. Methos just gave him his Cheshire cat grin before standing again, ready to leave. “Adam, what you said earlier-”

“Not now, Joe. Please?” Methos interrupted holding up his hand to forestall the inevitable questions, hoping that the shrewd Watcher would understand.

Joe looked at the other man, and for the first time noticed the little things that Methos had tried, and almost succeeded in hiding from him. Things like the fact that he was thin, even for Methos, his clothes seeming to hang on the whippet like frame, the black circles under the eyes and the worry lines across his forehead. Joe sighed and cursed Mac for an inconsiderate bastard, and then berated himself as well for the way he had treated the older Immortal. It was just so hard to remember that sometimes the Old Man really was just a guy like the rest of them, with feelings to match. Standing awkwardly, Joe took the two small steps necessary to stand in front of the other man, reaching out a hand he gripped the thin bony shoulder and gave it a companionable squeeze. “I’m sorry Adam, I mean it. I’ll do everything I can to help you find him.”

Methos felt warmed and elated by the gesture, so glad once again that he had friends like Joe, even if most of the time he felt he didn’t deserve them. “I know, and thanks.” He replied, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion and finding a lump in his throat.

“Aww, jeez Adam, please leave before you have us both crying in our beer.” Joe teased gruffly, having to swallow several times himself, before releasing his grip.

“Sacrilege,” Methos murmured, reaching out and squeezing Joe’s arm before he turned to leave. “Night Joe, I’ll see myself out.” He called over his shoulder.

Joe watched Methos leave, noting with a small smile that the other man seemed to be walking taller and lighter. How could he have been so blind to Methos’ feelings toward Mac, he was supposed to know these things?! He was so used to MacLeod’s honest openness of thought and emotion and the Old Man was so damn good at hiding everything. He sighed and checked his watch 6:00 AM. Shit Methos had only been here an hour and a half, it felt like five. Still, it was too late to go back to sleep now, ever since his army days he’d never been able to sleep late. Muttering to himself about pain in the arse Immortals, he decided to put the early start to good use and after a shower try and contact that thieving little vixen Amanda. He had her message service number around here somewhere.

 

Methos slumped forward in the driver’s seat, resting his head and arms on the steering wheel as waves of exhaustion and elation surged through his body, making him feel ill. For the first time since Mac had left him he felt grounded again, like he had a purpose. But that was the frightening thing about it, since when had he needed the Highlander’s presence to make his life complete? It hardly bore thinking about, this need to have the brat in his life. It was bloody insane, but there it was, as plain as the nose on his face. Which was about as plain as one could get, without putting up a neon sign that screamed co-dependent in capital letters a mile high. Fuck, after he found the skiving little bastard he was going to...to .. What? He wanted to say pound the crap out of him, but ‘fuck his brains out’ kept slipping in front of it. Giving the key a vicious turn, he threw the car into gear and headed back to his apartment, cursing all the Scottish deities out there who were undoubtedly sitting back in their chairs laughing very loudly at him.

 

******

Joe swore as the phone rang, if that was Methos again he’d.... “What?” He growled into the phone after snatching up the receiver.

“My, we did get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning didn’t we?” A female voice chirruped on the other end.

“Sorry Amanda,” Joe apologized. “I thought you were somebody else. Have you found anything out yet?”

“That’s ok Joe, I forgive you,” Amanda replied magnanimously in her best little girl voice. “And yes, I have. You know I’m really put out with Duncan and all this business. He just doesn’t usually do this kind of thing, disappearing without a trace, that’s Methos’ trick.” She prattled on, a mixture of mystification and disgust in her voice.

“Amanda?” Joe interrupted trying to get the Immortal thief back on track. “What have you found out?”

“Hmmm, oh, yes. Well, he’s holed up in some stone age monastery out in Russia, would you believe.” She replied incredulously.

“Russia!?” Joe repeated. “Well I guess that’s a damn good place to be if you don’t want to be found. How the hell did you find that out?”

“Oh, I just tried an old alias that Mac used once, about 200 years ago when we had to, ummm, leave town in a hurry. It was an off chance, I wasn’t sure he remembered it, but I thought it was worth a try. I almost didn’t bother, I mean I practically had to break his arm to get him to use another name, you know what he’s like.”

Joe had to laugh at the image of Amanda trying to twist the big Scot’s arm. “Amanda, you are an absolute treasure. I owe you one big time for this, and so does the Old Man.” Joe returned sincerely.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go there?” 

“No Amanda, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think we should leave this one to Adam.” Joe replied hastily, wanting to put a stop to any ideas she might have of rushing off and sticking a large monkey wrench into things, no matter how well intentioned.

“Adam?” Amanda replied after a long pause. “Oh, you mean Methos. So those two have finally gotten together have they? Well it’s about time. And being typical men they’ve gone and messed things up haven’t they? I don’t know, it’s a wonder the human race has survived so long, it really is-”

“Amanda,” Joe interrupted, stemming another tirade.

“What?”

“When did you figure it out?”

“Figure what out?”

“Mac and Adam?” Joe asked patiently.

“Them? Oh, about the first time I saw them together. Of course, it took them much longer to figure it out. Then they had to admit it to themselves, and then they had to admit it to each other. Honestly. Men!” Amanda finished before taking a breath.

“If you have such a low opinion of us, why do you stick around?” Joe asked dryly.

“Because you’re all so adorable.” Amanda gushed.

Joe could not stifle the laugh that bubbled up inside, talking to Amanda could be an exasperating experience, but it was at times like this that he really appreciated her personality. Amanda may appear to be a very shallow and absent minded person, and he admitted that most of the time he severely underestimated her himself, but underneath there was very little she missed. “Thanks Amanda, I really appreciate your help”.

“Anytime Joe. You know I’ll do anything for Duncan. Just keep me up to date, ok honey? I’ll email the exact location details to you, I don’t like to give that sort of information out over the phone.”

“Will do, and I’ll wait by the computer for it.”

“Ciao Joe.”

Joe hung up the phone and sighed, talking with Amanda was always an exercise in patience and a tiring one at that. Still, if her lead managed to find the Highlander, Joe was willing to forgive her almost anything. Going over to the computer, he switched it on and waited impatiently for it to boot up. A huge organization like the Watchers, and they couldn’t afford to get him a new computer, it was an indication of how many high ranking toes he had trodden on since that fateful day a lifetime ago when he had revealed his identity to MacLeod. A beep from the computer interrupted his thoughts. There were several messages waiting for him, but he went straight to the one from Amanda. As he read the location of the Monastery he wondered if the place was even listed on any maps. Amanda had also helpfully supplied the alias that Mac had traveled under, Jonathan Smith indeed. Joe could almost understand Amanda’s outrage. Printing out the message he went back to the phone and dialed Methos’ number.

 

“Hello.” Came the almost immediate reply.

“Jeez Adam, are you sitting on the damn phone or something?” Joe teased.

“Very funny, Joe. No, I just got in the door and was about to ring you.”

“Figures.”

“You have some news?” Methos got straight to the point.

“No, I just like the sound of your dulcet tones. Yes I have some news. Amanda’s found him.”

“Where?” Methos jumped on the news.

Joe had to smile at the tone of the other man’s voice, it was like a man dying of thirst being asked if he wanted a glass of water. “Russia, in some monastery.”

“Russia!” Methos exclaimed incredulously.

“You know, that’s almost exactly the way Amanda sounded when she told me.”

“How the hell did you miss him at the airport?! I thought you said you checked all the exits for him. Do you know how cold it is in Russia this time of year!?” Methos groused.

“Pretty cold I assume. He, ah, he used an alias,” Joe answered after a slight hesitation, holding the receiver away from his ear as the expected response came blasting through the ear piece. 

“My, you were quite a bit more inventive than Amanda was on that one.” Joe replied mildly.

“Again, very funny. Where the hell does he get off doing something like that. He’s never done it before.”

“Amanda suggested he’d been hanging around you too long and picking up some very bad habits,” he ignored the sputtering from the other end of the line. “..apparently that’s something else that was left out of his Chronicle. He and Amanda had reason to, um.... how did she put it, leave town in a hurry a while back and he used the name Jonathan Smith to do it. She tried it on the off chance he had used it and came up trumps.” Joe answered before reading out the location to the other man.

“Got it. You know, I may just forgive her for that. If he’s still there.” Methos growled.

“That’s very generous of you, Old Man. So when do you plan to leave?”

“I’m booking tickets as soon as I hang up.”

“Anyone would think you were trying to get rid of me.”

“You’re a real comedian today, Joe”.

“Anything for a friend,” Joe replied, his voice becoming serious.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks Joe, I really appreciate this, I owe you one big time.”

“Yeah, well, don’t think I won’t collect either. See you soon Old Man, and don’t forget to pack your Thermals.” Joe finished, warmed by Methos’ sincere thanks.

“Keep up the routine Joe, I’m only going to be there long enough to drag his sorry arse to someplace warmer. Then the Highland Houdini and I are going to have a nice, long chat.” Methos replied sweetly.

“That I’d love to see.” Joe stated, hearing the tone behind the sweetness and wishing that he could be a fly on the wall for that little discussion.

“Well, if you’re a good little Watcher, I might just give you the highlights.”

“Yeah, right, in my dreams. Good luck Adam, keep me posted”.

“Will do Joe, and thanks.”

 

Methos replaced the receiver, controlling the elation that surged through his system with difficulty. So, the little thief had come through. He wasn’t even phased by the fact that he now owed Amanda a favor, although he was certain that at some future time that little favor was going to come back and bite him on the rear. But right now that was about the furthest thing from his mind. He dialed his usual travel agent, one chosen for her discretion, and using one of his other identities, one who could afford such international travel, left instructions.

Packing sparingly, he decided to buy what he needed on the way, Simon Wentworth the Third could certainly afford it. First however he needed to visit the bank and pick up the papers required to become Simon. He grinned to himself at the prospect of being able to enjoy a little luxury for once, maybe he might just let the Highlander off on this one. After a suitable period of making him suffer of course.

 

Sitting in the first class lounge of the Paris International Airport sipping a whisky and soda, Methos sighed as his thoughts turned inevitably to the cause of all this pain and heartache. If he got right down to it and was brutally honest with himself, he was insane to want to carry on a friendship with the powerful and well known Scot. But becoming lovers had added a whole other level of lunacy to the situation and to his life. They had both skirted around the issue of a commitment. Mac had never pushed him, but he knew that the passionate and loyal Scot wanted one from him. He was terribly afraid that Duncan had finally listened to his cynical advice, for once, and simply walked away from the uncertainty. If that was so, then this was his last chance to salvage his future, because he now realized that a future without Mac in it was one he didn’t want to contemplate. Oh he would survive, he would go on he always had, but it would be existence, not living and he had been doing that for far too long. MacLeod had shown him the extent of what he had been missing in life and like an addict he could not now give up that heady feeling of being alive. A tone sounded on the public address system, interrupting his musings and making him jump.

“Would all 1st class and Business class passengers please make their way to Gate 20, your flight is now boarding” the heavily French accented female voice announced.

Methos cursed, this must be the second announcement, the first was usually in French, and he had been too busy woolgathering to notice. Hastily he gathered up his hand luggage and made his way towards the departure gate.


	3. Chapter 3

*****************  
A small Monastery  
outside Moscow  
*****************

Methos parked the four-wheel drive near the small but heavy wooden door that was the only entrance to the Monastery. Getting out, he sucked in a startled breath as the difference between the temperature in the heated vehicle and the freezing air outside hit him. Glancing at the back seat he decided to leave his pack in the vehicle, taking only the plane tickets with him. Approaching the door he spotted a rope that hung down next to it, he knew it would lead to a small bell and he pulled it hearing the sound that would announce to those inside that there was somebody without. He stood waiting for several minutes shivering in the cold wind that seemed bound and determined to cut its way through his several layers of clothing and freeze him to death. What the hell was the Highland brat thinking, coming to Russia in winter? A total absurdity in his not so humble opinion.

“Who is it?” a gruff voice muffled by the sturdy wood, asked in Russian, disturbing his internal tirade.

“I’m looking for Duncan MacLeod.” Methos replied in the same language, barely able to keep his teeth from chattering. It had taken him half the trip over to dredge up his Russian from the back allies of his memory, it had been over a century since he’d had to use it and it showed in his accent.

“There is nobody here by that name.” Came the gruff reply. “Go away.”

Well, obviously the brat was still using his alias and Methos cursed to himself. “Wait! Is there somebody here by the name of Jonathan Smith?” He asked, not quite failing to keep the desperation from coloring his voice. What if Mac had simply left? A pause followed by a simple, “Wait,” caused a traitorous leap of hope in his chest.

After what seemed like hours a new voice asked in heavily accented English. “Who speaks?”

“Adam. A friend.” Methos replied, barely resisting the urge to push open the door.

“Come with me.” was the rough reply as the door opened barely enough for him to squeeze through.

Methos followed the silent monk through the neatly kept courtyard and into the dimly lit stone building, all the while trying to keep the memories of previous times in places such as this from crowding in on him, because not all of them were pleasant. One of the many disadvantages of surviving as long as he had was the almost constant state of de-ja-vu that he lived in. At least, he thought wryly to himself, it was warmer in here, if only just.

The tingling wash of MacLeod’s presence when it hit him, almost caused him to gasp out loud. He had not realized how much he had missed it, or for that matter, how strong his reaction would be to the powerful sensation until it vibrated along every nerve and fiber of his being, promising a safe and welcoming haven.

That however, was not the response he got from the man who sat within the sparsely furnished and dimly lit cell that his silent guide had shown him to. “Hello MacLeod, or is that Smith?” He greeted in his usual fashion, confident, as usual, of his welcome.

“What the hell are you doing here?” was the unexpected greeting after the monk had left, Mac’s voice issuing from inside the cowl that was covering his head.

“Nice to see you too.” Methos returned taken aback, anger rising to take the place of his usual flippancy. “Don’t you think that should be my line MacLeod, after all, you are the one who ran away.” He finished hotly, all his carefully planned speeches deserting him.

“Maybe I took a lesson from the master.” Mac retorted.

Methos winced as the barb found its mark, all the more painful because he had had those same thoughts himself. Fuck! What was wrong with him, he was letting the brat get the best of him. What was the matter with the other man, he asked silently, wishing that MacLeod would remove that damned hood so he could see the other’s face. Then a nasty, chilling thought occurred to him, what if Mac did not want him? What if Mac had deliberately left with no word, to lose him? Abruptly, his churning thoughts were interrupted.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“I’m here because there are people back in the real world that care about you, Mac. Joe’s been worried sick. How could you do that to him?” Methos replied, desperate now to hide his own feelings. This had been an insane idea from the start, he should have taken the opportunity that the Scot had given him and disappeared himself.

“You’re throwing stones in glass houses again Methos,” Mac retorted reaching up to pull the cowl back, settling it over his shoulders and turning to face the man still hovering at the door, pinning him with a direct unwavering gaze. “And don’t you mean how can I do this to you?” Mac finished.

“Screw you MacLeod, this has nothing to do with me!” Methos spat back, stung at the Highlander’s accurate reading of his thoughts. Fuck! Was he becoming that easy to read?

“Doesn’t it?”

“Screw this! I’m outta here. I don’t have to listen to this shit from you.” Methos growled, turning to leave, only to find himself grabbed from behind and slammed up against the cold stone wall, an angry Scot in his face. Oh this was familiar, he fumed to himself.

“Oh no you don’t, Old Man. You are going to listen to this shit,” Mac hissed, pleased at the way the deep green eyes dilated in anger. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to kill you for running out on me?! For leaving me to sit and worry and wonder if you were ever going to come back?! Or to hear if you’d lost your idiot head to some hunter and to learn I’d lost you for good! But you always turn up again, like some cat, expecting me to hand you a beer and act like nothing has happened. Well not this time Methos,” Mac continued, emphasizing each word with a hard shake of the unresisting body in his grasp.

Fuck this is insane, Methos berated himself as he found his traitorous body responding to the Highlanders close up anger in a most inappropriate way. He was a sick perverted bastard, that’s what he was and he started to struggle, the emotions behind the big Scot’s words and in the depths of his molten brown eyes suddenly becoming overwhelmingly claustrophobic. “Get the fuck off me MacLeod!” He hissed back, trying unsuccessfully to break the vice like grip on his clothes. Seeing the futility of struggling against the other man’s deep anger, he switched to another tack. “I swear to you, MacLeod, if you don’t let me go now it will come to swords between us.” Methos put all the chill of Death into his voice, the empty satisfaction of seeing a brief flicker of fear in the brown depths of his now most definitely ex-friends eyes a hollow victory. He was released with such haste that he had to lock his knees to prevent an undignified slide down the wall to the floor, his own anger now coming to the fore as he felt he had been manipulated. He lent against the wall for support his body shaking and vibrating in reaction.

“Methos, Cariad, I would do anything for you. I would die for you. I would even kill for you,” Mac pleaded, instant regret at provoking the ancient Immortal filling him as he stepped forward to embrace the man, wanting to do anything to take the angry expression off of his lover’s face.

Methos cursed, the feeling of claustrophobia becoming almost overwhelming, stirring the flames of his anger. He flung angry words back at the infuriating Scot. “That’s all very nice MacLeod, but would you walk away for me?!” As soon as the words left his mouth he froze, instantly regretting them as he saw Mac’s face pale, an expression of shock spreading across the proud features. Methos winced at the hurt that was reflected in the soulful brown eyes, thankful that there was no weapon in the room, or he would have used it on himself. 

Cold fingers wrapped their way around MacLeod’s heart, squeezing the warmth out of it. He could only stare at the man in front of him, wondering if he would wake from the nightmare that he seemed to have slipped into without warning. Methos did not want him, the cold hard truth made it easier to say the words. “If that is what you want,” he stated numbly before he pushed past Methos to leave the room.

Methos cringed at the chill in MacLeod’s voice. “Duncan, I-”

“Don’t! Just don’t,” Mac almost sobbed, stopping at the door and raising a hand to forestall the words. “Just don’t.... be here when I get back.” He finished in a whisper before walking out the door. If he had turned back to face his lover, he would have seen an expression of horror cross the pale features, and might have known that the words had been spoken in haste, instantly regretted. But he did not.

 

Methos stood alone in the suddenly cold and empty cell, now devoid of the presence that had made it seem so warm and inviting. He vainly fought the overwhelming desolation that threatened to engulf him. He had been offered a gift beyond price, his Highland Prince had given up his soul and what had he done? He had ignored it, had taken it for granted and abused the trust that the Highland child had given him. He had been stupidly unwilling to see and acknowledge the depth of both their feelings towards each other, afraid of the consequences to them both he had taken the decision from MacLeod’s hands and made it for them both, again ignoring what it did to them both. Then, when confronted with Duncan’s feelings he had reacted as if he was the only one being hurt and with a few selfish ill chosen words, said in anger, he had mutilated their friendship, leaving it, along with his own heart, to die on the cold ground of his cowardice. Old Man, all your life you have cursed the fates and every deity that you have ever known for the misbegotten life you have been forced to endure, and all along it has been all your own doing.

Slowly all feeling, all strength left his body and his knees buckled, unable to support the crushing weight of despair that had settled on him.

*****

Coming back to himself Methos found he was on his knees, hunched over, his arms wrapped around his shivering body. The echo of somebody sobbing skittered around the cold stone walls and with a jolt he realized that he was that somebody. But somehow he could not seem to find the strength to berate himself for such a useless display of emotion. Gasping for breath and fighting to control the tremors that wracked his body, Methos stood slowly, steadying himself with a hand on the bed. His attention was caught as something slapped to the floor at his feet. He stared at it for what seemed like hours before it registered on his numbed brain that it was the airline tickets he had purchased for them. The candlelight flickered on the white plastic of the wallet, which seemed to wink at him mockingly and he had to fight back a bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to explode out of him at the irony of it all.

He had come here to find Mac, to help the Highlander and heal their differences. Instead he had destroyed everything more thoroughly than Kronos ever could have. Bending, he picked up the wallet and slipped the tickets out caressing the glossy cover with his fingers. Raising it to his lips, he kissed Duncan’s ticket and with a silent prayer to whatever God out there was still willing to listen to a very old fool, he laid it carefully down on the bed before leaving.

*****

Duncan strode blindly down the familiar stone corridors his vision obscured by unshed tears, the only thing on his mind the tearing soul-destroying words of someone he loved and had hoped to spend the rest of his life with. The pain inside his gut was unbearable; Methos did not want him. He was an idiot, when had the flighty skittish old Immortal ever given any indication that the relationship was anything other than casual?!

He was vaguely aware of other inhabitants of the old Monastery as they went about their business, but most in this cloistered order had taken vows of silence and they did not intrude on his solitary hell. Unawares his feet had taken him to one of the inner courtyard gardens, dormant now in the harsh winter. It was a well kept garden, the cobbled paths and stone seats kept clean and snow free by the Brothers. The bare trees were adorned with their seasonal garments of snow and hoarfrost, icicles sparkled like jewels in the weak sunlight. But the beauty of the scene was lost on the man who came to a stop at its center and stared up at the sky as if seeking answers from the heavens.

Calming himself with deep slow breaths, Mac brought his chaotic thoughts and emotions under control. Sinking down onto the stone seat that surrounded the tree at the center of the garden, he closed his eyes and replayed the scene in his mind.

When he had felt the touch of the Old Man’s powerful and seductive presence, he had at first been elated that Methos had come for him, perhaps it meant that there was something real there after all, not just in his foolish imagination. But the others initial greeting had fired the guilt he carried, about the manner of his departure and seeing Methos had made him angry at being reminded of it. So he had responded in kind, provoking a confrontation that he was sure was not what his sometime lover had wanted. Damn it all to hell, why could they not have a calm, rational discussion like civilized adults, instead of this constant childish sniping? He snorted to himself, perhaps they were both slipping into their second, or should he say ninety-second childhood. Would you walk away for me, it had been those last words that had struck a deep fear in him. A fear that deep down Methos did not want the relationship that Mac himself longed for. The deep lasting commitment of life partners that would outweigh everything else, which might happen to them in their long and bizarre lives. Would you walk away for me, even now those words caused a chill shiver to crawl down his spine, even when he knew them to be the product of provoked anger. 

Snorting at the irony, Mac came to the obvious conclusion that he had been jumping to the obvious conclusion with far too much haste. If Methos had wanted to leave, the contrary old Bastard would not have trekked all this way to tell him so. He would simply have disappeared like he usually did without word or explanation. Which, Mac reminded himself with a guilty sigh, was exactly what he had done. God, but this whole situation was just one big insane mess. Methos had come here to talk but he hadn’t listened, neither of them had, instead they had quarreled. Words had been said that had hurt them both, it may not have come to swords as Methos had threatened, but the wounds caused had been just as painful. With a sigh of deep regret Mac was honest enough with himself to admit that this time it had been entirely his fault, and it would have to be him that held out the olive branch.

Shivering as a persistent breeze cut its way through the wool of his habit, Mac found that he had lost the false serenity that he had gained in the months while he had been here. He knew from past experience that this meant it was time to leave, before he lost something infinitely more precious. Shaking off the languorous mantle of meditation that he had warn too long, he stood and with fast purposeful steps made his way back to his cell.

Mac sighed to himself, stifling his disappointment as he approached his room, when he did not feel the hoped for Immortal buzz. So Methos had left, but what else had he expected, for running back to beg was not the Old Man’s style at all.

Mac noticed the ticket almost immediately, the weak shaft of light from the small window above the cot spotlighting the glossy white paper. It stopped him in his tracks at the door, all thought suspended, before he found himself drawn to the bed. Bending he picked up the ticket running his fingers lightly over the smooth paper, his breath caught in his throat when he encountered the damp patch. It took several long seconds before the significance of the small imperfection registered. A tear stain! Methos crying?! Forcing himself to breathe around the lump in his throat, his fingers tightened on the ticket, creasing the paper. He was so used to seeing the ‘Methos’ that was shown to the rest of the world that he constantly forgot that there was a man of deep feeling beneath the cynical façade. The fact that that was precisely what his contrary lover wanted him to see was not a valid excuse any longer. He had been so wrapped up in his own problems that he had failed miserably to take into account how events had affected others, Methos in particular.

Cursing to himself, Mac was oblivious to the silent figure standing just outside the doorway. The quiet sound of a throat being cleared made him jump and he swivel to face the hooded figure.

“I am sorry to startle you brother, but I fear you are troubled.” A bass voice in heavily accented English emerged from inside a deeply cowled habit.

“Aye, Brother Sorgi. Troubled indeed.” Mac sighed.

“May I be of any help?”

“Please, come in,” Mac invited, indicating his cot as it was the only place to sit in the small cell.

The large man stepped into the small room, instantly making the space shrink before reaching up to pull back the cowl. He revealed a face that was old and weather beaten, framed by neatly cut gray hair and a long but well trimmed beard. Seating himself on the offered bed the old monk gazed into Mac’s troubled eyes. “The man who left not long ago, he is the source of your trouble?”

Mac almost laughed out loud at that unwitting truth, instead he snorted. “You have no idea,” he returned. “He is a.... friend.” Mac finished after a slight hesitation, not sure how much of the nature of his relationship with the contrary Immortal in question he should reveal. Even to somebody such as this man, who had become a close friend in the months he had been cloistered here.

“A close friend,” the other man stated with vast understanding and no judgment in his voice.

Mac sighed grateful for the others understanding. “It’s complicated,” Mac finished lamely.

“It always is. So, you will be leaving us?” Brother Sorgi asked, indicating the ticket still clutched in MacLeod’s hand.

The ghost of a wry smile drifted briefly across Mac’s face. “Yes my friend, it’s time I left. I cannot hide from my problems any longer, much that I would like to”

Brother Sorgi threw his friend an understanding look. “Call it gathering ones strength rather than hiding. If you were hiding, I think you would not be leaving.” With a small chuckle Sorgi stood. “God go with you, my friend.” The old monk finished, clapping Mac on the shoulder before he turned to leave. “I will ask one of the Brothers to ready your vehicle.”

“Thank you again, my friend,” Mac called after the retreating monk. Well, so much for peace and harmony. What the hell was it about Methos that always completely upended his usually ordered existence? It was completely insane the way the man had wormed his way into his life and seemed to take great delight in shaking it up. But it was only in the very deepest parts of his mind that he admitted to himself that he would truly miss that interference if it were to end. With a resigned sigh Mac proceeded to ready himself for the long journey ahead. Changing his clothes he packed his meager possessions in his duffel bag, before retrieving his sword from its hiding place, taped under the slats of his cot.

With one final look around the small room that had been his home for the past several months, Mac picked up his duffel and left, closing the solid wooden door behind him, the sound echoing along the stone corridor with an ominous finality. Snorting at that ridiculous thought, Mac headed for his vehicle, trying not to dwell on the coming confrontation.

*****

Methos stiffened as the familiar wash of MacLeod’s presence swept over him. He scanned the sparse crowd for the tall Scot, spotting him standing at the entrance to the terminal. He breathed a traitorous sigh of relief, glancing at his watch. As usual the brat had cut it fine and he had just about given up on his own personal Scottish boy scout showing up. He forced that thought out of his mind, it was all he could do to squash the silly grin that threatened to split his face. No point in giving away to the smug bastard how much he actually meant to him. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” Methos smirked as he sauntered up to the bedraggled looking Highlander, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Should I be flattered?”.

“Screw you Methos,” Mac returned flatly, exhausted by the hours of hard driving to get to the Airport in time to catch the ungrateful wretch. Spotting the men’s room he had been searching for, Mac hitched his duffel more comfortably on his shoulder before heading towards it, leaving Methos to follow in his wake.

 

“Not until you’ve had a shower,” Methos said quietly, leaning on the basin next to MacLeod, watching the other wash the grime from his face.

“What?” Mac growled, not up to dealing with what passed for wit in his companion.

“You can’t screw me until you’ve had a shower.” Methos reiterated, wrinkling his nose at the stale smell emanating from the Scot’s vicinity.

Mac straitened ignoring the water dripping from his face and glared at the man beside him. Glancing around he discovered that the restroom also had shower facilities, how very convenient, he thought allowing an evil grin to slide across his lips.

Methos caught the smile as it spread across the handsome face and the accompanying evil light in the chocolate brown eyes. Oh goody, he’s finally noticed the shower, he thought to himself, a spike of long suppressed desire causing his breath to quicken with the anticipation of finally getting the irritating man where he wanted him, naked, and he didn’t much care where.

With a low growl Mac grabbed up his duffel and with the other hand secured a handful of sweater, dragging the ancient Immortal behind him into the nearest shower stall, before thrusting him against the wall and taking the ginning mouth in a savage kiss. Leaning almost his full weight on the smaller man, Mac thrust a knee between the slender thighs. Hands came between them and attempted to push him away, growling in annoyance Mac seized the deceptively delicate wrists and pinned the older Immortal’s hands to the wall. Breaking the kiss, Mac pulled back pleased to see the emerald eyes dilated in both shock and desire. “Bloody little tease,” he snarled as the shock turned to a smirk.

Methos gasped for breath, licking his lips and half expecting to taste blood and mildly disappointed when he didn’t. Freeing his hands from Mac’s slackened grasp he slid them down the cabled sweater that Mac was wearing, stopping when he reached the black denims beneath. “My.... is that a sword in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” He teased, splaying his fingers over the hard bulge in the Highlander’s pants.

“You’re lucky it’s not Old Man, or I’d be very tempted to take your miserable head with it.” Mac growled back, leaning in for another kiss, this one only slightly less savage. Finishing the oral attack with a final sweep of his tongue over the bruised lips Mac stood back and began to undress, dumping his clothes off to the side. Pausing mid strip he caught Methos looking at him appreciatively. “Well?”

“Well what?” Methos returned his attention entirely taken up with the tanned expanse of chest that had been revealed when Mac had removed his sweater.

“Unless you want to continue this journey in wet clothing, I suggest you get them off. Because you are joining me, dressed or not,” Mac finished, taking a menacing step forward. 

Methos yelped and began hastily removing clothes. Hanging around in wet garments was not his idea of a fun time and he knew damn well that Mac would follow through on his threat in his present mood.

Mac grinned to himself, watching admiringly from beneath his lashes as Methos stripped, revealing the long lean body that had been haunting his thoughts on the long journey back to Moscow. Removing his socks he stepped into the shower proper and turned on the water, setting the temperature to its hottest to counteract the cold outside. The stream was not very strong, but better than the cold trickle he had been used to at the monastery. He noticed that Methos had finished stripping, barely, and reaching out a hand grabbed the startled man, yanking him under the now hot stream of water and pushing him against the back wall, swallowing his protest in a long, passionate kiss.

Methos came up gasping for air, feeling like a drowned rat as the big Scot held him under the stream of hot water, although he did enjoy the feel of Mac’s hard body pressed up against his. Looking up, through water beaded lashes, Methos was confronted by the sight of an evilly grinning MacLeod. Discarding the urge to poke his tongue out as far to undignified for a man of his age, he pushed the bigger man back against the opposite wall instead and attacked him in turn. Licking his lips after breaking off the kiss Methos growled. “You know, when I saw you in that monks habit the first thing I wanted to do was screw you silly. There’s just something about implied celibacy that immediately sets a challenge,” he leered thrusting his hips against the other man’s, rubbing their erections together and eliciting a gasp from his lover.

“Is that so?” Mac murmured, cupping the others face. “And how many monks have you seduced in your time?” He asked before leaning in close and targeting the long tempting neck with his teeth.

“Including you?” Methos replied between labored breaths. “I’ve lost count,” he finished, enjoying the vibrations that rippled through his flesh as the big Scot chuckled at his answer.

“Or perhaps I should ask, how many monks have seduced you? Hmm?” Mac shot back.

“Only one,” Methos replied softly, feeling the other man stiffen in his arms and pull back. He had to stifle the bubble of laughter that threatened to erupt from his chest at the expression of incredulity on the other man’s face. “You are the only one that I have allowed to come this close to me, Mac. And believe me when I say, it hasn’t been easy, or always pleasant.”

“But, what about Kro-”

Methos placed a hand over the soft sensuous mouth, he did not want to hear that name, not now. “He took what I would not give Duncan, what I want to give to you.”

A sob escaped Mac, torn from him by the sound of his name in that soft baritone, by the trust that his lover was placing in his hands, despite the way he had treated the other man. Reaching up he cupped the beautiful face again, placing a kiss on Methos’ forehead, on each eye. “I am so very sorry Lover,” he whispered against the softly parted lips as he closed for a soul-searing kiss that sent his spirit soaring.

Methos found himself drowning in the taste and essence of his magnificent Highland child, and wondered what it was that had made him fight so hard to avoid this feeling of complete contentment that now wrapped him in its warm embrace. He ignored the snide – Survival - that his mind supplied him with and returned the kiss with equal fervor. Breaking away he looked up into the desire darkened gaze, knowing that his own eyes mirrored the feeling. “Now, are you going to fuck me or do I have to beg?” He growled.

“Maybe later,” Mac whispered into the still open mouth, returning the wicked promise in the green eyes with a grin of his own. With a snort his lover turned and braced himself against the wall spreading his legs, leveling him with a come hither gaze from the corner of his eye. Unable to wait anymore Mac pressed up close to the long lean back, one hand guiding his shaft into the warm body beneath while the other slipped around to caress the pale wet flesh of Methos’ chest.

A groan escaped Methos as Mac’s cock pushed into him, the head grazing his prostrate and causing a flood of pleasure to spread through his body in a series of concentric waves, forcing him to lock his knees lest he lose the ability to stand. When a warm gentle hand enclosed his own aching erection and began to pump it in time to the thrusts from behind, he knew that he could not last long. Remembering at the last minute where they were Methos laid his head back on Mac’s broad shoulder and reaching up he pulled the other’s head towards him. He latched onto the sensual mouth and allowed the other to absorb his cries of ecstasy even as he swallowed Mac’s response, both of them reaching the pinnacle of pleasure together.

 

Gradually their breathing slowed and they both became aware of movement in their immediate environment, the banging of a metal door and a chill draft that curled up from under the shower door to slice along passion warmed flesh like a razor. Mac suppressed a shudder and was amused to hear muffled snickering from his lover, still pressed up against the tiled wall. “What’s so funny, Old Man?” Mac whispered into the shell of Methos ear before pulling away, feeling himself slip from the warm haven of the slender body.

Methos’ breath caught as the connection was broken. “Gods MacLeod,” he whispered back. “Do you know the penalty for sodomy in Russia?”

“No. Do you?”.

“No, but I bet it’s not pleasant,” Methos shot back, suppressing another bout of hysterical laughter.

“Then I won’t tell, if you won’t.” Mac returned, an irrepressible grin on his face.

“Shit Mac, you really will be the death of me one of these days,” Methos moaned quietly to himself.

“I heard that. Quit whining Methos.”

“I don’t whine,” Methos protested, turning in Mac’s loose embrace to face his lover.

“Whatever. Now hurry up and lets finish this shower before we miss our plane and they come looking for us.” Mac ended, dragging the unresisting body of his lover under the water and washing away the evidence of their recent pleasure.

Methos shivered as Mac’s hands skimmed over his body and he vowed to himself that somehow they would work this mess, that was masquerading as their lives, out. Because for some insane reason he found he did not want to lose the pleasure nor even the pain of having this magnificent child in his life. Duncan MacLeod had forced him to live again, puncturing his life of routine existence, forcing him to participate and abandon the facade of distant voyeurism that he had carefully erected to prevent just such a thing from happening. And for now he could not contemplate returning to that fake and shallow life, consequences be damned. If he was going to regret it in the long run, then best he have something worth regretting.

Mac felt the change in his lover’s mood, and knew that the contrary ancient Immortal had come to a decision. Elation filled him and buoyed his spirit, and he could not help but take the Old Man in his arms and hug him as hard as he could, wanting desperately to join them body and soul for all eternity. “We have to promise something to each other Methos.”

“Mac, you know-”

“Shhh,” Mac interrupted, placing a hand over his lover’s mouth. “Not that. No, we have to promise that neither of us will ever just leave the other without saying anything. Please Methos, we both know what it’s like.”

Methos sighed. “All right MacLeod, you win. I promise.” Methos gave in, unwilling to ruin the mood when to concede cost him so little.

“No my friend, we both win.” Mac replied placing a brief kiss on the upturned lips before letting the other man go and turning off the shower. Stepping away reluctantly from the warm body he rummaged in his duffel for a towel and proceeded to dry his lover, knowing how much the other hated being wet and cold.

Methos watched MacLeod as he dressed, admiring the play of muscles under the taut skin, resisting the urge to reach out and touch what was now his. His, it had a ring to it that seemed so right and he snorted. Why should he resist? Giving in to the desire he stretched out a hand and brushed a lock of dark silken hair from the noble face, tucking it behind his lover’s ear, then allowing his fingertips to caress along the strong jaw and up over the full sensual lips. He was rewarded by a devastating smile, one which, he could not help but return. For better or worse MacLeod, for better or worse - he vowed silently to himself with a sigh, still as yet, unable to make that promise out loud to the loyal Highlander for fear that he could not keep it.

Mac caught the sigh, but unable to read the cause in the hooded green gaze he dismissed it. Finding his watch in the pile of discarded clothes he checked the time before stuffing everything back into the duffel. “We’ve got about an hour before the plane boards, and I don’t know about you, but I could use something to eat.” He urged, listening at the door to make sure the coast was clear.

Methos snorted. “Food! I need a drink, my nerves are shot.”

“What’s the matter Old Man, age finally catching up with you?” Mac returned, opening the door a crack for a visual check. Seeing that the way was indeed clear he opened the door fully and excited the shower stall, dragging his complaining companion behind him.

“Just you wait till you get to my age MacLeod, if you get there which I doubt, and see how well you do.”  
Mac could not help but grin, God how he missed the ancient pain in the arse and his whining.

The End


End file.
